Infused and Fated Love
by Ana Thena Aldrich
Summary: This is an alternate ending to Charlotte Bronte's classic JANE EYRE, and takes place as Jane is leaving Thornfield Hall in the carriage. It continues Jane's "coming-of-age", and includes a possible new love interest as well as an unexpected twist!


**Jane Eyre Fan Fiction: Infused and Fated Love**

The coach rumbled along, and I could tell that the coachman's spirit dampened as he quickly realized that I was unwilling to engage in conversation. His patience soon wasted as my sullen state became that of pain and guilt. How awful it would be for Mr. Rochester to wake and find that I have quitted him—quitted Thornfield, and Adele, and all that has ever made me content. The frequently returning idea that I could go back is haunting my consciousness, and I yearn with the utmost desire that I should never have had to leave in the first place. I love Mr. Rochester with all my heart, and for that reason it is my heart that dissuades me from continuing this journey I have set before me. Though I know I cannot turn back now, I am not far enough to be free of my temptations.

Realizing now that I've been sobbing during my internal dispute, I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and dab at my eyes. Turning my head to gaze out the window, I now see that the calm morning I left back at Thornfield has rendered into an evening enveloped in black clouds. In the distance there was a small village just barely perceptible. Unknowing of how far the coachman would indeed take me, I deemed it might be a good place to subside.

"Excuse me sir," I addressed the coachman. "Can you tell me in which direction you are continuing? Should you be perhaps turning off toward that quaint valley?"

"I'm afraid not miss."

"Well then, how much farther were you contemplating taking me?"

"Not too much farther miss, for I can only make-do with what you intended to give me." He hesitated. "Perhaps I could take you another mile or two?"

"Surely that won't better me. Do you mind stopping and letting me off here?"

"As you like miss."

The carriage soon ceased to move. I opened the door and stepped to the dirt as did the coachman step down from his seat. I took out my measly purse and handed him all the money I had—the complete twenty shillings. He looked at the money, and then back at my face. I searched his as he eyed my empty purse.

"Miss I didn't take you the complete twenty shillings worth. Here, keep three shillings, it may help." He handed me some coins sand stepped back up to the reins. He turned to face me once more and nodded. "Good evening miss." The horses started forward and the carriage rolled along. I smiled and watched it disappear in the distance before beginning my own journey.

The village was a great distance away, and it would take most of the night to reach it. Determined I began walking; across fields and over hills I trudged in the direction of the valley. Howling wind brought an uncanny chill upon me; I wrapped my arms about myself, though it provided little warmth. An hour or so had passed and I began to tire, but I knew I could not stop until I had reached my destination. I pushed onward and forced my legs to endure.

I subsequently reached the edge of the village—but it was late, far too late to be knocking on anyone's door—therefore I wandered in search of something that might tell me where I am. Dark as it was, I could make out that there were many small cottages and a variety of shops. Surrounding this village were plenty of enclosures containing crops and animals, probably belonging to farmers, and there was a stone church that stood towering over all else. Knowing not of what else to do, I sauntered into an open enclosure and found a pleasant place to sit. Drowsiness soon withheld me and I dozed off into darkness.

_A small and dainty candle flame flickered, its ember glow dimly lighting the bedchamber. Beside me lay a man with a shadowed face that outlined stern features. His fingers traced the line of my jaw, down my neck, and up again. He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it so my lips could meet his. The kisses began slowly; they were gentle and soft, but soon became eager and fierce. They burned with impassion and the heat left me breathless. I pulled away and he pulled me back for one last lingering kiss. I smiled; he placed his cheek upon mine and whispered "You must go." I could not fathom what he meant by his words. Again he whispered to me, but this time louder and more intensely. "Oh c'mon, get up! You have to move!" Suddenly I felt a forceful grasp at my wrist pulling me up._

With this I woke, being dragged to my feet by a man whose face is still unclear for my vision blurred from the abrupt motion. I tried to stand still as my head whirled but lost my balance, and the secure hold on my wrist tightened to a painful grip. Finally I recovered my eyesight and looked up to the face that belonged to the hand holding me up.

He had a strong squared jaw and slightly defined cheekbones. His features seemed frustrated, and his heavy brows were upraised. Shaggy brown hair sat somewhat neatly across his forehead, highlighted with gold from the sun. I thought he must be in the sun often for his skin wasn't pale. He had a ruddy complexion and scruffiness about his chin and upper lip. His nose was of perfect shape and his lips were full and of clear definition. As I focused on his eyes I could see them searching, and I myself was searching his. The glance I received was soft, his gray-green eyes melted into liquid pools of colour. He was handsome. The handsomest I have ever seen and therefore I became quite diffident. I could tell he was older than me, though he was still quite youthful—thirty years old at the most. He was dressed well though not extravagantly, wearing black corduroy trousers, a white collared shirt rolled at his forearms, a black waistcoat, and a burgundy scarf about his neck. Again I looked into his mellifluous eyes and for a moment could not even dare to look away.

Suddenly I felt needles piercing my hand as all blood circulation had hindered. This stranger has yet to release my wrist! I couldn't withstand the pain any longer; using my other hand I wrenched his grasp off and rubbed my wrist tenderly. He stared at me with confusion.

"Sir, you were hurting my wrist." I explained.

He looked at his hand and shook his head with a feeble laugh. "I apologize, I did not mean to inflict pain of any sort; I merely meant to get you up and on your way. I have such vigorous hands for someone who does such delicate work."

"Ah, and what work would that be? For I see no delicacy in the way you grab a stranger—a girl none the less—and bring them to their feet from where they slumber."

"No need to be testy, miss, just have a job to do. I am an artist; a painter. I have been paid to paint this scenery at dawn to capture its preternatural aspects." He pointed to the landscape. "And not to be impudent but I do need you to leave, or at least move to a different spot where you are not in my direct view of the land."

I was quite astounded by his words. "Oh, so you are a painter. Painting is so fascinating! I paint too—a little. Do you mind if I sit here and watch someone like _you_ pain?"

"Not at all, but please don't interrupt. I must finish the painting today and time is disappearing hastily." With that he set up his easel, canvas, brushes, and oil paints**. **He commenced his work swiftly yet attentively.

Within two hours he was finished, and what a work it was! I had never seen anyone blend line and colour as well as he; it was brilliant! The whole time he painted I sat near and watched the way he moved his arm and wrist so freely yet so precise. I was intrigued by his style and decided I required an explanation as to how this man learned to paint.

Graciously he sat with me in the open enclosure and told the tale of that I wished to hear. He explained how his grandfather had been an artist—a sculptor in fact—with a passion for anything beautiful. His father was quite the opposite and was ashamed of having an artist for a father, therefore tried to keep his own son away from anything but his studies. He was expected to be a scholar, but when he told his father that he wanted to paint his father had cast him off, giving him nothing but the clothes he wore. He at age twelve went to live with his grandfather in the village of Greendale which we were in now. His grandfather encouraged his artistic skills as they developed and helped open a small art studio for him to work in. At age sixteen his grandfather died, leaving him alone with barely any money. Throughout the years he struggled to earn enough for himself by painting, but now his works became favored around the village and he provided for himself quite well. And that comes to what he was doing this morning. He was painting a canvas for an old couple in the village who loved the mystique a morning could bring.

"What a life you've had, Mr. … Oh dear, I have not even asked of your name yet! Do pardon me; I get so enthralled listening to others speak. Now what am I to call you?"

"You may call me Mr. Johnson, though I do prefer just Erik." He held out his hand and I hesitantly place mine in his. He brought it up to his mouth and kissed it so softly that it could have been just a breeze of air touching my skin. "And you—what am I to call you?"

"Well Mr. Johnson, you may call me Miss Eyre." I allowed myself to say cautiously, for I did not know if Mr. Rochester had any connections to this valley.

"And how is it Miss Eyre, that you had come to be sleeping out here in this enclosure?" he questioned.

"It is a very long and complicated story Mr. Johnson, yet I feel obliged to tell you it for you have let me trouble you by telling me yours. I would like to eat before I begin though, for I am weakening from hunger. Do you know of a bakery nearby?"

"Yes, there is a bakery on the other side of the village..." As he said this I smiled and brought myself to my feet. He jumped up quickly and continued, "But why would you walk across the village when my cottage is just around the corner?" Staring almost blately at my face he awaited my reaction.

Mr. Erik Johnson was a charming man. I found comfort in the way we conversed with each other; a soothing fluidity in the way words were uttered from my lips. Handsome as he was I did not diminish beside him. My diffidentness subsided and self-assurance became evident to me. He seemed competent, and kind, and in a way had slyness about him. I took him up gratefully on his offer for it would save me my three shillings just a while longer—and I would much enjoy his company.

After having indulged myself with a freshly baked roll and a few pieces of sharp cheese, I began telling Mr. Johnson of how I came to Greendale. I started by telling him of my parents' death and how I was cast-off to school by my Aunt and cousins when I was ten. I continued by detailing my experiences at Lowood Institution, how I stayed for six years and then two more as a teacher. I explained that I advertised to be a private governess, and that I was taken up at Thornfield Hall to teach a French ward of the master of the estate. I thoroughly explained the circumstances of the master, Mr. Rochester and me, and how we came to love each other. Sullenness came upon me as I conveyed to him Mr. Rochester's intentions of marrying me, and how at the altar I heard the news of him having a wife living to date. I did not touch on the details of his wife being mad, for I felt that was only Mr. Rochester's business. I finished my tale by telling him of my carriage ride and the foot journey I had taken last night, and how I fell sound asleep in the enclosure from tiredness.

As I told my story I distinguished many expression changes, and even possible mood changes from the man sitting across the room. I could tell that certain details made Mr. Johnson sympathetic to me while others just made him livid. Now that I was done I attempted at reading his current expression but I could not perceive as to what his face disclosed. For moments he just sat with his fingers upon his mouth, staring at me blankly. Finally he moved and seemed as though he would finally speak.

...

Reader, he didn't. Not one word was spoken between us that evening other than him offering to allow me to stay the night, and my grateful response. Thereafter we did not speak other than the occasional word, though sometimes I would find that Mr. Johnson's frosty liquid eyes lingered on me. As much as I tried to engage him, he only allowed one word responses. He allowed me to stay there for a fortnight, and gave me small tasks to do for him in return. This gave me the time I needed to figure out how to advertise for some sort of position.

When the time had come for me to post my advertisement, Erik had stopped me. He grabbed my papers and tore them in half. He offered me an artist's assistant position that would require me to be helping him and even doing a little painting of my own. He proposed to pay me twice of what I had earned before, and for that I could not turn him down. This was the beginning of a much altered life for me.

The first couple months took adjusting. I had to learn how this little village worked, and I also had to figure out Mr. Johnson. I learned that he was nimble and dexterous; he was always quick to respond when I addressed him. He gave me a permanent room I his cottage and a small room to be used for a personal study or art studio, though both rooms remained almost empty other than the furniture it already contained. Often Mr. Johnson was busy with his job, and I was always busy cleaning his brushes or changing his oil paints. We became used to each other's company, and soon quite enjoyed it. It seemed as though we always had something to talk about.

A year had gone by, and I quickly noticed subtle changes in Erik. Not only did he rarely take part in conversation with me, but his skin had grown a lot paler. He always requested that I be near him just in case he needed help doing anything, though he never actually let me do anything. The more time I spent with him the more cheerful and healthy he seemed to be.

Again months went by and spending all my time with Mr. Johnson made me forget the horrible memories of Thornfield Hall. Slowly but surely, I moved on. I knew a part of me would always hold on to Edward Rochester and that I would always love him, but I also knew I was allowed to be happy. Erik made me focus on what great beauties laid all around us. I had time to enjoy what I never had the chance to enjoy before; I had time to think of what I wanted in life. I realized even after everything I had been through that I still wanted a family, but at the time I thought that it would never happen for me now…

...

"Jane." The voice called.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson?"

From the main art studio I hear Erik shuffling around. "Can you come here a moment? I wish to speak with you."

"Just a moment sir, I am just finishing putting your oiled brushes away—there!" I walked down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the studio. "Now what is it that you wished to speak to me about—" I looked up from inspecting my now smudged hands, "Oh?"

The room was completely bare, all except for one easel holding up one canvas that seemed like some sort of portrait of a woman. The door to garden was left ajar and I assumed that that was where Mr. Johnson had made his exit. I immediately started for the open door, but as I passed the canvas something about the portrait caught my eye. I stepped back to take a second look.

I was staring at a very large and exceptionally detailed oil painting of a woman with deep green eyes. Her hazel brown hair was curled and down, but it had an untamed look about it. In the background you could see some sort of large hills and the whole picture seemed almost elfin. As incorrigible as the woman seemed, she had such plainness about her face that it held my gaze for several moments. And then I realized what I had failed to realize before—the woman in the painting was me! Confusion clouded my mind like gray afternoon, and all I could do is but stare at the canvas.

It took quite a while for Mr. Johnson to realize that I was not going to be able to follow him into the garden, and all that time I just stood motionless. He poked his head through the doorway; I could feel him present but I dared not move my eyes. He came up beside me and took my hand.

"Do you like it?"

I was silent, not a word could come to my lips. He dropped my hand.

"Oh Jane, I hope you're not upset! I just wanted to paint you in a way that shows the side of your soul that you refuse to show most." He began to ramble. "I think it's pretty accurate, but then again I am the one responsible for it all. Jane, say something—anything! Oh you hate it! I knew I should have painted you how you appear now. I've made an appalling mistake! Forgive me then, Jane?" He paused.

It took a moment to remember how to speak. "I am not upset; I am merely taken aback by how beautiful it is—the painting, not I. I do question your intentions with this portrait though?

"I just wanted you to see yourself as I see you. I wanted you to know I see past how you present yourself, and I know you yearn for greater beauties and adventures in life." Mr. Johnson took a moment to think. He seemed as though he was trying to choose his words quite cautiously. "Jane, how do you see yourself in the future? Do you see yourself old and alone, working to make a living? Or do you see yourself in a marriage with children? Or perhaps you haven't even thought that far into your life?"

"Indeed I have. Though I am sure that I will never have the chance, I would like to find someone and settle." I replied earnestly. "At least for now I have a found a place where I am happy. Being here with you has impacted me greatly and helped me forget such terrible events I have endured."

"And do you love me Jane?"

There was silence.

I sighed. "I can only love you as much as my healing heart allows."

"And does your healing heart allow you to love me, Jane, enough that you shall not refuse my simple proposal of marriage?" Mr. Johnson took my hand in his once again and held it to his chest. "My heart needs someone Jane, It needs you."

...

And as you see now Reader, after seventeen months of working for Mr. Johnson, he had finally proposed to me. I knew I could live a happy life with him, and therefore I was able to make myself push Mr. Rochester into the deepest part of my heart where his lingering memories could subside. Rarely again would I ever reminisce on him and Thornfield, not until a much later time.

We stayed engaged for a long time; we were in no hurry to be married and Mr. Johnson understood that I didn't want to do anything rash. Our engagement changed nothing of how we acted around each other, except for that Erik liked to be inconspicuously romantic. He never outright showed his affections for me, other than the occasional times he would push the stray hairs from my face and how he constantly told me I was plainly beautiful. These gestures never tired from him, though his conversations did. He became less exuberant and began sitting only in his studio all day long. At the time I thought nothing of his strange behavior, I simply believed he was just tired from work.

After about six months of engagement I finally told Erik that we should be married, and within a fortnight he had made preparations for a small wedding in the stone church here in Greendale. We were to have one witness and no one else. It would be a private and romantic ceremony, and we weren't going on a honeymoon. That fortnight was possibly the happiest I had ever seen Erik Johnson. He was much livelier than I had seen him within the few months prior, and excitement always filled those gray-green eyes. When the wedding actually came about I was dressed in a simple white dress with a plain veil, and my fiancée and I walked to our little village church. As we said our vows Erik's face was that of a child's receiving a gift. The way he smiled when we left the church as man and wife was one of my fondest memories of him.

From here Reader, I shall make my story brief. Many details of the next eight years aren't of the utmost importance for me to convey them to you. I will only explain the most important ones of them all, and hope that you will understand that fate had played such a role in all of this.

From there on we were inseparable. Although we weren't over-affectionate to one and other, we rarely spent our time anywhere else but in our cottage talking and painting. We lived in our own little world that was only ever left for the necessities of the outside world.

It was about another year before I had birthed my first child. My baby was a boy, and Erik whose tendencies grew weaker again became full of life as he was extremely proud to have a son. I named him Edward E. Johnson; Edward being the name of my first significant love, and having the middle initial represent my maiden name Eyre, which I wished to be carried through our family.

As Edward began growing and getting older it was evident that he was a smart child. Being brought up in an artists' cottage, even at the age of six he knew that he wanted to be some sort of sculptor. He spent all his free time in the studio to sculpt small masterpieces. Often he would try to engage his father to help him with his skills, but soon I found that Erik was growing weaker and weaker.

My husband grew ill over the years of Edward's childhood. At the time, neither he nor I knew anything about the horrible toxins contained within certain hues of his oil paints. The more Erik painted the sicker he became. I spent all my time caring for him and trying to help him stay strong, but it was useless.

On the day of Edward's seventh birthday, my heart once again shattered. I awoke to find that Erik had not yet gotten out of our bed, and when I rolled him over I found that death had left its mark. Although he died somewhat peacefully, I wished I could have at least said goodbye to my dear husband.

The months following his death were lonely, and I spent all my time trying to care for little Edward, only to find that I was expecting to birth yet another. I was without much money and therefore forced to once again advertise for a more suitable job to pay my family's expenses. Unsure of what to do with myself in the meantime, I decided to choose a name for the unborn child I was certain was to become a girl: Estella Johnson.

The months leading up to Estella's birth were tough on the whole family. Without much money we were forced to sell Erik's art supplies, as well as cut back on the amount of food ingested. A growing boy like Edward constantly wanted more food but I myself could not give him more portions for I need to keep myself and Estella strong. We were barely scraping by through the cold and harsh winter.

Estella was born in early spring, and was the prettiest baby I had ever seen. But times were then desperate, and again I advertised for any available position of work. Wanting only to help my family, I decided to walk with my children farther into the village to see if there were any responses to my advertisements. And now, Reader, you are caught up to the present.

...

Carrying wrapped baby Estella in my left arm and holding the hand of my dear Edward on my right, I walked through the streets of the village on my way to the post. This spring morning was breezy and cool, and the dew made the village sparkle. I am worried that no one will have responded to my advertisements. For my children's' sakes, I fear that once again there shall be no responses. We are forlorn now; struck with misfortune and despair. All I can do now is hold myself together for my kin.

As I finally approached the post I hear my name faintly being called. Unknowing of the voice I turned around, but see no one within recognition. Again I hear my name but this time I could hear a familiarity within the voice, and I could only imagine the melancholy voice being used for brooding.

"Oh Jane, even after eleven years apart I should have known that it could only be you that would advertise!"

_**The End**_


End file.
